A View of Burning Empires
by jacinto-tavora
Summary: Spot Conlon has spent his entire life building an empire, but now it's all being threatened and he sees everything he's ever worked for crumple right before his eyes.
1. Welcome to New York

_Author's Note: So, because I have no idea what direction my other story is going in and my twenty minutes attention span has kept me from making a new chapter, I decided to write a new one after I had a real good dream about Newsies last night. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies or any of its characters. The introduction was inspired by The Godfather: The Game (2006) by EA__ based off Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather __(1972) __movie based off Mario Puzo's The Godfather (1969) book, whew. However the plot and other character are au naturale. _

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_**Welcome to New York:**_

There are five dominating gangs in New York -- each one occupying they own toif. Foist there's Ha'lem. Ha'lem's controlled by Zavier Neville, a spook from Georgia who made a name for himself sellin' cheap, watered down liquor over 'round Sugar Hill. As far as bronze go, Zavier himself aint much a' nothin'. But don't underestimate the guy - he's smart. Can't no one out craft the crafty an' Zavier is, without a doubt, one crafty bastard. Zavier runs a couple nice spots - one on Astor Row, the othah on Strivahs'. Ha'lem may not look like much from the outside, but watch out near the waterfront. Gamblers, pimps, and madams show loyalty to no one and it aint expensive to get them to tell someone what they wanna know.

Aftah Ha'lem you've got the Bronx. The Bronx is a pretty descent place if you know where your goin'. They got the best damn racin' horses this side 'a the Broadway has evah seen. An' it's got plen'y of them landma'ks, you know, those things you always see in the pictures. Jimmy Broncks runs the place. Runnin' the Bronx was like his birth right or somethin' with his last name bein' the same. Jimmy don't really show no strict alliance wit' anybody, which is smart on his part. No sides means no enemies and no enemies means he can run his business smoothly without anyone gettin' in the way. But be warned, Jimmy rules with an iron fist. His boys come first and if you run a fowl with them, you run a fowl with him. It aint always pretty when the cool headed one blows up. Believe me, I've seen it happen.

There are two gangs in Manhattan - one in Hell's Kitchen the othah in the Five Points area. 'Course Kelly's gotta gang over Lower Eastside, but he aint nothin' to worry about. The kid's got sense and knows where he's goin' as well as what he's doin'. Vincent Cavallo runs Hell's Kitchen and not just pa'ts of it. All of it. He's got thugs on every corner, in every alley. Cheap brothels and illegal dealings are scattered everywhere. As for Vincent himself, this guy can not be trusted by anyone. He's been known to turn on even his own guys. Loyalty is not in this man's vocabulary. Vincent is reckless and hot headed. One second he'll be completely calm and the next he's blowin ' some guys head off. My advice: Don't look at him, don't talk to him, live a long life.

An overcrowded rat's nest filled with poverty, rampant crime, decadence and despair, Five Points aint any place for the weak of heart. Not even a cop can go through there alone. There's only one main gang in Five Points, run by Frankie Cavallo. I know what your thinkin' an' it aint no coincidence. They are related. And if you think Vincent's bad, meet his little brother. The younger ones always pick up on somethin' the older ones didn't. Frankie deserves to be hated. He's got no conscience and no morals. Look into this man's eyes and you're lookin' at pure evil. Even his gang is a bunch a' bloodthirsty whack jobs. The worst thing about Frankie is he doesn't _look_ like a threat. Nice smile, a good lookin' kid all together. Face of an angel, but the heart of a demon.

Last, but not least, there's Brooklyn. New York's own skid row. Spot Conlon has Brooklyn, and when I say he has it I mean he _has _it right in the palm a' his hands. Nothin' evah goes on in Brooklyn without him knowin' about it. He's got eyes an' ears all over the place. Jus' when you think you got away with somethin', _BAM_! he's right there. Brooklyn itself is a respected borough, and as calls for, there is none othah more respected than Spot. The Cavallo's rule because fear, Jimmy 'cause a' loyalty, and Zavier with passion, appreciation. The Colored's aint got is so hot an' Z's helpin' 'em out a lot. Don't get me wrong, a'right? The othahs are respected. But only Spot rules on respect alone.


	2. Independece Day

_Soapy Smith's Shanty, Harlem, 1900_

The air was thick with the malodorous stench of gunpowder, fire and smoke, making it difficult to even breathe in the stifling heat so uncharacteristic for New York, even in July. Any other night, mother's would have already put their children to sleep before sitting at their bedside to protect them from any bad dreams. Any other night, father's would have already begun to prepare for the next day that so inconveniently began only a few short hours after it ended. And any other night the city would enjoy its peaceful solitude that only came with the days end, but tonight was not any other night.

A fantastic explosion lit up the night sky with such intensity that could have been frightening if not so beautiful. Magnificent shades of red, white, and blue produced a feeling of pride and joy to its spectators, young and old. It was the Fourth of July, America had gained her independence and the city of New York was more than eager to show off their patriotism. Manhattan's celebration brought people from all over New York and even a few from New Jersey together to prove how much they loved their country -- the land of opportunity, America.

"Land of opportunity my ass," a low husky voice complained. The smoke in the room was even thicker than that outside and mixed with the smell of tobacco. An old lantern hung in the corner while the moon shone through an open board in the roof of the decaying shanty. The voice took a swig of the liquid in his cup before replacing the cigar back in his mouth. "What opportunity do I got here, huh?"

The other four boys around the table eyed him, strangely. It seemed like Old Neville had had a little too much to drink, or maybe not. He knew what he was talking about. As the only colored at the table he didn't expect the others to understand what he was talking about, which was just as well because they seemed to shrug it off anyway.

"And what's with the heat? Open a damn window."

Spot grinned at Zavier's sudden irritation. He tapped his cards hard on the table to get the attention of a girl sitting on the bed not too far from their table. "Hey Naev, get a towel for him, will ya? I think the heats gettin' to him."

Naeva obediently grabbed the rag from a bowl on a crate and rang out the cold water. She meandered over to Zavier, dabbing his forehead lightly while taking a seat in his lap. He looked to Spot thankfully then blew the smoke from his mouth.

"A'right. Lay 'em down boys," Soapy said with a confident smile.

Jimmy was the first to put his cards down. "Three of a kind, boys. Knock ya'selves out."

Zavier put down his cards, not really paying attention to what they were until a minute later. "Straight," he shrugged. "Not too bad, ey fellas?"

Soapy brought his shoulders up and shook his head. "Not bad at all," with his smile never fading, Soapy laid his cards so only the number and suit showed. "But not good either. Full house."

Soapy chuckled as sighs went through the boys. Clancey threw his cards down onto the table to show he only had a pair -- two sevens. Soapy reached for the pot, but was stopped by Spot casually tossing his cards in front of him to reveal his straight flush. He looked up at Spot to see him smirk.

"Damn, Conlon!" he pouted, slamming his hand on the table. "That's the third game in a row."

Spot wrapped his hands around the winnings in the middle of the table. "What can I say? That's the game."

Mixed agreements went between Zavier and Jimmy while Clancey looked down at his cards, longingly. "I don't understand. It's always the same hand every time, two sevens. Heya Spot, aint seven 'spose to be a lucky number?"

Spot patted his friend on the back encouragingly. "Buck up, Clance."

"Yeah, at least you know you're gonna lose," Soapy joked. "I keep gettin' real close just to have this bastard swoop it out from under me." Soapy sucked hard on his cigar. The smoke he blew out was so thick it covered the front of his face completely. When it cleared, a look appeared in his eyes, something that wasn't there before. "You know what I think..."

Everyone could sense what was coming. Soapy was notorious for switching moods real quick like. He had to be. The people he dealt with on a daily basis were nothing nice. People had to change when being in certain environments, but this wasn't the time. As a matter a fact, it never was. Spot had never liked Soapy. He was a low-down thug who got his reputation from his family, that of whom Spot wasn't too fond of either.

Jimmy sat up straight from his slouching position, but otherwise showed no worry. His voice was calm and he didn't take the time to look at either of the two. "Cool it, Soaps."

Soapy shot a look at Jimmy before returning his gaze to Spot. He took another puff from his cigar. "I think you're cheatin'."

Spot was in no hurry to retaliate. He gathered his cards and muttered a bored: "Really."

Soapy leaned back in his chair, coolly, crossing his legs at the ankles."Yeah, really." Spot's indifference irritated him almost to the point of insanity and as much of a front he tried to keep up, it still shined through. He searched his mind for a better rebuttal, but nothing came, so he uttered the only insult he could think up.

"No hard feelings, though. Shoulda known better." And then as if it were a completely different thought, he added. "Bringin' in this paddy, mick mothah fu--"

No sooner did the words leave Soapy's mouth than out of nowhere -- the once cool-tempered Spot, flew out of his seat and tackled Soapy to the ground with such force that it rocked the table. The whole table was up in a flash, watching Soapy receive the punishment he deserved. He knew he hit a nerve, not just with Spot, but everyone in the room. Spot Conlon was by no means a full-blooded Irishman. His father was Irish, but his mother had been 100% Italian. It wasn't like he hadn't heard the words before. It wasn't even the first time someone called him a mick, but paddy...

Clancey instinctively ran to pull Spot of Soapy, who had been beaten almost passed the point of recognition. One eye was swollen shut with blood pouring from it, as was one side of his lip, and the hair that swept over his forhead was now matted in place from the crack Spot managed to leave. Despite all this, Soapy was still fully conscious and able to move. Naeva ran to his side, screaming and crying. It took all Clancey had to keep Spot restrained. It wasn't until Soapy pulled out the black object did Clancey loosen his hold. All were quiet. All eyes on Soapy.

Soapy scrambled to his feet, using Naeva as a crutch. He smiled, exposing his bloody teeth that he must have just noticed were loose.

"Not so tough now. Are ya, Conlon?" he asked, gathered the mix of blood, saliva, and a few teeth in his mouth before spitting them to the floor. "Huh?"

Spot shrugged out of Clancey's hold. He kept his eyes on Soapy, looking at the pistol only once. Soapy's thumb pulled back the hammer. The clicking of the gun echoed throught the tiny hut. He licked his cracked lips, tasting the salty, bitter on his tongue. "Think you can beat a bullet?"

If you were to ask each boy, or even Naeva, what was going through their heads that night you'd probably get the same answer: 'Nothing' or 'I don't know'. For what happened those next fifteen seconds happened so quickly, no one was even able to take a breath.

In the three seconds it took Soapy to wink and smile before cocking the gun, in the two seconds it took for everyone to see his fat finger tug at the trigger, in the five seconds it took Clancey to grab the gun from Spot's belt, in the three seconds it took him to cock, aim, and shoot it -- and in the final five seconds it took for the bullet to disappear into Soapy's chest, knocking him to the floor -- only one breath was ever taken.

Zavier sighed. Closing his eyes, he whispered, slowly, "Soapy, you sonuvabitch."

The second he hit the floor Spot snatched the gun from Clancey and marched over to where he lay, sprawled helpless on the floor with one hand clutching his chest. Spot stood over him and the good-for-nothing actually had the nerve to reach one arm up as if asking Spot for help. With a look of disgust on his face, Spot emptied the remaining bullets into Soapy's squirming body.

"What the hell, Spot." Jimmy ran up behind him, forcefully pulling him away by the shoulder. "You know how many fuckin' cops are out on the street tonight?"

"And she aint helpin' none!" Zavier pointed to Naeva who was screaming hysterically at the terrific scene in front of her. Soapy was beyond recognition. His body was twisted in a gruesome position and his face had literally been torn off from Spot's bullets. Not to mention, she had his brains on her.

Spot jerked away from Jimmy's hold and looked at Clancey. "Clancey, you a'right?" There was no answer. Clancey just stood there staring at the body with a grim look on his face. "Clancey!"

Spot turned back to Jimmy and Zavier, unable to think with Naeva's screaming. "You two get the hell outta here."

"I aint leavin' ya here with this, Spot," Jimmy countered. "You know what this looks like? Murder, the cold-blooded kind. You know what you get for that nowadays?"

Zavier held his hands up, as if Jimmy's words had just made him realize what could happen. "I aint goin' down for this. I can't go down for somethin' like this."

Both Spot and Jimmy looked at him in disbelief.

"Then get the fuck outta here, like I said."

Zavier hesitantly moved toward the door, managing a pathetic, "Sorry", before leaving.

"Guess you can't trust them, either," Jimmy said in a tone bordering irony. He grinned at Spot who in turn didn't smile, but relaxed his face. He didn't know what he meant and at that moment it wasn't important.

Before anything else could be said, the police pushed through the door seeing a dead body and a half-naked girl, who by that time had been reduced to a state of shock. They immediately grabbed the three boys who looked to be the only ones who were unharmed. Sheriff Neals was the last to saunter in. He looked around the tiny domicile, resting his eyes on Soapy.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here. I get a call about a disturbance and here I find a dead body." He walked toward the body and leaned down beside it, turning his nose up in disgust. He turned to Naeva without leaving his position on the floor. "What's your name, girl?"

No answer.

Neals looked down at the body then back at her. "Do you know who did this?"

And for the first time since the police had entered, Naeva turned to look at them. She looked at the rotting body of Soapy Smith and without hesitation, looked directly between Spot and Clancey and pointed.

"Them."


End file.
